


John Hughes Wannabe

by StormDancer



Category: One Direction (Band), Zayn Malik (Musician)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Non-Famous, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Pining Harry, School Reunion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-30
Updated: 2016-07-30
Packaged: 2018-07-27 14:59:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7623199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StormDancer/pseuds/StormDancer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Think about it. You’ll be staying together. There’ll be slow dancing at the reunion, you’ll have to dance together. Maybe take a walk on the beach, in a nice romantic setting. Everyone will think you’re together already, it’ll be in the air. It’s perfect!”</p><p>  <i>Harry wants to win his high school reunion. And maybe win Zayn's heart too, while he's at it. </i></p>
            </blockquote>





	John Hughes Wannabe

**Author's Note:**

> Probably the tropiest and fluffiest thing I've ever written, enjoy!
> 
> Disclaimer: I've never been to San Diego, and have only been in California twice, so warnings for California stereotypes and probably incorrect geography.

Harry ignores the letter. He opens it, of course, because he opens all his mail, even when it’s just asking for money, but once he sees what it is, and that it’s not for a few months and he has to get to the movies five minutes ago, he throws it on the table with the rest of the mail he’ll get to soon, and forgets about it.

He doesn’t remember about it until a month later, when Liam, who’s supposed to be making them popcorn, has apparently stalled in looking through Harry’s mail, because he’s secretly the world’s biggest busybody. “Oh, Harry!” Liam calls back, from the kitchen. “Are you going to your reunion?”

“Maybe?” Harry yells back. Zayn gives him a dirty look from the couch next to him, because Zayn’s a dirty hypocrite who only likes people talking through movies when it’s him. Harry ignores the dirty look, because being friends with Zayn means being able to ignore him when he’s moody.

Liam, who doesn’t see the dirty look, wanders back in, holding the envelope. “You should. It’s a lot of fun. I went to mine last year, and I reconnected with Soph—”

“And we all saw how well that worked out,” Zayn mutters. This time it’s Harry who gives him the dirty glare, and Zayn subsides sheepishly. They’ve all decided to put a moratorium on Sophia talk for the time being, while Liam recovers.

“Anyway,” Liam says, ignoring Zayn’s comment with the determined upbeatness he’s been living in since the break up, “You should go.”

“I don’t know.” Harry shrugs. Zayn pauses the movie with a pointedly loud sigh, but he’s just being a shit because he can. “I haven’t decided yet.”

He would say he hasn’t thought about it, but that would be a lie. He has thought about it. Wondered. Debated. He has a pro and con list that he made one night, then hid because he recognized how ridiculous he was being.

“Don’t tell me everyone there doesn’t love you,” Zayn points out. Harry’s stomach does the stupid fluttery thing it does whenever Zayn says shit like that, the casual praise Harry knows he doles out to all his friends. “I’ve seen pictures of you as a teenager.”

Harry can’t exactly deny it, but, “My curls aren’t actually magic, you know.”

“I’ve never seen evidence of that.” Zayn grins, and Harry glances away. He’s not going to blush. Just because he loves Zayn’s wicked grin doesn’t mean he has to blush. “So why don’t you want to go?”

“You didn’t go to yours,” Harry tells him. He doesn’t really want to say it, the reason he pinpointed one of those nights he was getting to sleep. It’s embarrassing. Especially because he knows that his high school experience was distinctly different from both Liam and Zayn’s, and in a good way.

“That’s because we Brits are sensible and don’t have proper reunions.”

“Yeah, well. You wouldn’t have gone if you had one,” Harry argues, and Zayn nods in agreement.

“I see everyone I care about when I go home.” Zayn shrugs. “But I’m not you. You care about more people.”

It’s true. It’s always scared Harry a little, how Zayn chooses the people he cares about and cuts out everyone else; makes him wonder if he could ever be one of the ones cut out. But it’s been almost five years now, and Zayn’s never made a move to do that, even at their worst fights, or when Zayn was at his most destructive, so Harry thinks—hopes—he’s safe.

“So, why not?” Liam asks. He leans against the doorframe, the popcorn apparently forgotten. “It’s fun. You go home, get drunk off of bad wine, laugh at how much of an idiot you were as a teenager.”

“Sounds like so much fun,” Harry drawls. He looks back at his hands, because Zayn’s eyes are narrowed as they look at him, and Zayn has a way of seeing too much of him.

Sure enough, “Are you afraid you won’t win the reunion?” Zayn asks, slowly, something like amusement in his voice. “Is that why not?”

“No!” Harry protests. He tries not to cross his arms, because he knows he looks like a child when he does that. “No,” he says again, “Not exactly.”

“I thought you only had to win the reunion when you were a loser in high school,” Liam muses. Zayn makes an agreeing noise.

“It’s not that exactly,” Harry repeats. They don’t get it. He knows he had a better high school experience than them, knows he wasn’t bullied for his weight or his skin or religion or anything, knows that he was one of the kids who Liam and Zayn probably feared or hated, respectively. And that was good, he’s not saying otherwise. But there are different pressures there. “It’s that, I don’t know. I won most likely to succeed.”

“Of course you did.” Zayn’s voice is that mixture of exasperated and fond that Harry likes to think of as particularly his.

“And where am I now?” Harry goes on. He gestures to the apartment—small and cramped with the couch and the armchair and TV. The kitchen’s small, not the spacious thing Harry’s dreamed of; his bedroom fits a bed and that’s about it. Sure, it’s New York, and it’s not a bad size for the city, but it’s not success level. “I’m twenty-eight, still in school.”

“Law school,” Zayn interrupts, his voice low and fierce. Harry’s stomach does that fluttery thing again.

“Still in school because I didn’t figure out what I wanted for years after college, which means I have massive debt, and it’s just, well. I’m not succeeding, am I? And I’m not going back if I’m going to lose the reunion.” Harry tugs at some fringe on the throw pillow next to him. “I don’t even have a hot partner to win that way.”

“Well then.” Liam says it so businesslike Harry has to look up. That’s his plan voice. His plan voice is dangerous. “We can do something about that last one. Zayn can go with you.”

“What?”

“What!”

Harry and Zayn’s exclamations come at once. Liam just grins at them, innocent. “Zayn can go with you, Harry. Pretend to be your boyfriend. Then you have a hot partner to show off!”

“What?” Harry repeats. Zayn looks just as incredulous.

“How many romcoms has Haz been making you watch, Liam? That’s not—people don’t do that.”

“Why not?” Liam shrugs. “You’re single, you get a vacation in California, Harry gets someone hot on his arm to show off. Everyone wins.”

“Except—that’s not—” Harry’s stuttering. Zayn looks more speechless. But he doesn’t have the added problem of what Harry and Liam both know about why this is a particularly bad idea. “Liam, roommate conference in the kitchen?”

Liam follows him back obediently. Harry gives Zayn an apologetic, ‘I’m sorry my roommate’s such an idiot he was your friend first you have no one to blame but yourself but I’m sorry anyway’ sort of look. Zayn seems to get it, from his nod and shrug response.

In the kitchen, Liam leans against the counter, looking earnest and innocent. He’s a snake, Harry’s always thought. Well, he hasn’t really thought that, but he can pretend. “What are you doing?” he demands, his voice a whisper. Sound carries from the kitchen, sometimes, and Zayn can’t hear this.

“It’s a perfect plan.” Liam looks very pleased with himself, which Harry is suspicious about. “Look, Zayn’s been broken up with Gigi for a few months, he’s over her, and he’s single for the first time since you’ve known him, basically. This’ll give you the chance to finally make your move!”

“So you want him to pretend to be my boyfriend?”

“I want you to woo him,” Liam clarifies. He’s still got that stupid earnest smile on. He’s dangerous. Harry’s always thought so.

“Woo?”

“Think about it. You’ll be staying together. There’ll be slow dancing at the reunion, you’ll have to dance together. Maybe take a walk on the beach, in a nice romantic setting. Everyone will think you’re together already, it’ll be in the air. It’s perfect!”

Put that way, it…doesn’t sound like the worst idea. Harry can picture slow dancing with Zayn, like he’s seen Zayn dance with Gigi, or Perrie back at the beginning, his hands on Zayn’s hips and them pressed close, maybe his head resting on Zayn’s shoulder. A sheen of alcohol, the glamour of the past—of the time when Harry was on top of the world. Taking a walk on the beach outside Harry’s home, probably far up from the water because Zayn’s still a little phobic, but their toes in the sand and maybe their suit coats over their shoulders. Harry’s hand might brush Zayn’s, and then Zayn might smile, intertwine their fingers…It could be the perfect moment, finally. The one Harry’s been waiting for since Zayn and Gigi broke up, the one Harry missed after he and Perrie ended.

“Fine,” Harry says, drawing himself back before he gets lost too much in the daydream. “But Zayn won’t agree.”

Liam laughs. “Of course he will.”

“No he—”

“Are you two finished?” Zayn demands, from the living room. “Are we ever going to watch the movie?”

Harry gives Liam another look. “He won’t agree, so it’s moot.”

“He will,” Liam argues, and then herds Harry back into the living room.

They don’t talk about it again until the movie—Little Miss Sunshine, because it was the best compromise they could come up with between the three of them—is over, and Zayn yawns, and makes to get up from where he’d ended up curled up in the armchair, a blanket tucked around him.

“You can stay over,” Harry suggests, as Zayn stretches. His hair is getting longer, which means it’s messy after the full day and evening, his hair falling over his eyes. It’s adorable. Harry had thought that maybe, after knowing Zayn for almost five years, after he met first Liam then Liam’s best friend Zayn the first month or so of work, the force of his face would fade. But apparently that’s not happening anytime soon.

“Nah, I’ll go home. Need to feed the dog.” Zayn reaches back to scratch at his neck, then heads towards the door to pull on his boots. Harry follows him. Liam must have tactfully disappeared somewhere.

It’s nothing they haven’t done a hundred times before, Harry waiting as Zayn kneels to tug on his shoes. Even more so in the past few months, because Zayn gets clingy after break ups, needs to hold onto the people he has. People make fun of Harry for how cuddly he gets, how sometimes he latches on to people, but Harry thinks Zayn is worse—how he soaks up affection from people dearest to him. How he blooms with it. How Harry could rest his hand on Zayn’s neck, right where the fantail is, and run his hands through Zayn’s hair, and Zayn would smile at him, fond and pleased, and Harry would wonder if this is the moment—

“I’ll do it, if you want.”

“Hm?”

Zayn stands up. His gaze locks on Harry’s, intent. “Go with you to your reunion. If you want me to, like, pretend.” His lips twist a little, the sort of self-deprecating wryness that makes Harry want to kiss it away. “Not like I have anyone to object.”

“Do you want to?” Harry asks. It’s insane. It’s absolutely insane, and he knows it, and he thinks Zayn knows it, but—but Zayn likes insane plans. And Harry can’t quite resist the lure of the picture Liam painted, of the two of them together. Of finally getting his chance.

Zayn shrugs. “It could be fun. And like, if you think I’m hot enough to help—”

“Of course you are,” Harry interrupts, waving that away. Zayn smirks a little, because he’s an ass. “Shut up.”

“This is what you get, with me as a boyfriend.” Zayn tells him. There’s laughter in his gaze. “I’m very needy. I like being complimented every hour.”

“Noted.” Harry tries a smile back. “Really? You’d do it?”

“Sure. It’s a vacation, yeah? And it could be fun.” Zayn pushes back his hair. “If like, you don’t mind…you know how I get, with new people? I might not be, like. The least awkward fake boyfriend ever.”

“It’s okay, you’re hot enough to make up for it.” Zayn makes a face at him, and Harry makes one back, so he knows Harry’s kidding. “You’ll be fine. I can talk enough for both of us.”

“I know that,” Zayn agrees, and Harry laughs. “So, like. We’ll talk about logistics soon?”

“Yeah.” Harry nods. Okay then. They’re doing this. “I guess we will.”

\---

Harry is summoned to Zayn’s apartment two days before they leave. Zayn’s apartment is even smaller than Harry and Liam’s, a miniscule studio that Harry still thinks Zayn might be doing something illegal to afford, because he managed to get it almost immediately after he’d moved out of Gigi’s place. Harry’s tried to ask if he’s dealing or possibly selling himself for it, but Zayn just smirks and doesn’t answer whenever he asks, which slightly worries Harry. But he also figures it’s New York, and sometimes you have to do what you have to do to get an apartment.

Harry goes there right from his last class, but Zayn’s already home—the joys of the self-employed, Zayn’s called—and buzzes him up. Harry welcomes the dog that bound up to him, slobbering all over his shoes, then sets his bag down and shoves the clothes and books off of the bed so he can sit down.

“What’s up?”

Zayn’s standing in front of the mirror on the back of the closet. It’s not an uncommon way to find Zayn, which makes sense to Harry because he likes to stare at Zayn all the time too, and also he understands that that sort of perfection takes work.

“What do you want me to be, for the reunion?”

“What?”

Zayn turns around. His hair’s pulled back in a half-ponytail, and it should look stupid but somehow it doesn’t. “I’ve been thinking of getting a haircut, I can do it before we go. What do you want me to be?”

“Still not making sense.”

“Like,” Zayn reaches into his closet. “Do you want artiste?” he holds out one of his big sweaters, the soft ones that are the best for cuddling. “Or like, punk?” He grabs one of his leather jackets. “Or, young businessman?” He grabs a white button down shirt.

“Um.” Harry blinks. He knew Zayn put a lot of thought into his appearance, but he hadn’t realized it had types. “I don’t know, I want you to be you?”

“I can be any of them.” Zayn’s eyes suddenly light up. “Oh, maybe I should be a spy! I could wear a suit and dark glasses. Though I guess then I couldn’t actually say that’s what I was…” he presses his lips together, pouting slightly. “Maybe I could drop some cryptic hints? We could get really quiet when asked about my job, then I’ll just say, ‘florist’ and that’s it. We could—”

Harry can’t help his laugh, or the fond look he’s probably giving Zayn when he turns the pout on him. “You are such a nerd.” Sometimes he forgets, because Zayn looks cool, that he’s actually one of the biggest dorks Harry knows.

“I am a spy, Styles. I’m not a nerd.” Zayn grins, suddenly, the one that crinkles in the corners of his eyes and lights up his face and maybe makes Harry a little light-headed. “This is what you ordered as a fake boyfriend, though. You knew what you were getting into.”

“It’s okay, it’s cute.” Zayn keeps that smile, as he looks away. “I want you to be you. Graphic designer you.”

“So not a model either?” Zayn pouts exaggeratedly at Harry, as he hangs the leather jacket back up. “I think Gigi still has some test photos of me somewhere, we could make up this whole thing about me being a European model or something.”

“Gigi has test photos?”

Zayn shrugs. “I was in a few with her. Even some that ran, I think, when they wanted a feature on her.” Of course he was. “Anyway, do you want that?”

“No.” Harry reaches down to pet Rhino, who’s been nosing at his leg for attention. “I want you to do what you want with your hair and your clothes and just look like you. You’re doing me the favor, here.”

“Just want to do it well.” Zayn turns back to the mirror, running his hand through his hair. “How do you think I’d look with a buzzcut?”

“You’d abandon the long hair squad like that!” Harry squawks in protest, and Zayn laughs as Harry manages to almost fall off the bed.

\---

Harry’s always liked airports, and JFK’s one of his favorites, or at least the Jet Blue terminal—it’s cleanish, and it’s bright, which is the best thing. It’s a decent place to wait, even outside security, which is good, because Zayn is, predictably, late. Harry gave them plenty of extra time here, because he knew that would happen, but he’s still shifting anxiously by the time Zayn shows up, trying to scan the crowds for him.

He almost doesn’t recognize Zayn. He’s seen Zayn with all sorts of hairstyles over the years, from the quiffs to the long hair to the buzzcut and even that memorable day when he dyed the buzzcut green. But this is—his hair’s been cut definitely, so it’s thick but not long like it had been, which isn’t the shocking part really, it’s been that length before—just the right length that Harry could run his hands through it, get it really messy and make his mark.

What is shocking about it is that it’s blonde. Almost white-blonde, in a way that should be overwhelming, or possibly 90s boyband, but is just—a lot. Somehow not even the way it blends into his still-dark beard is off, though again, on paper it probably should be.

“Wow,” is all Harry can say, as Zayn nears him.

Zayn grins, rubs the back of his neck. He’s just in jeans and a black Henley otherwise, but it only makes the hair more shocking. “Like it? I know it’s a big change, and maybe not what you wanted for the reunion, but I was talking with Jason and we just thought it could be, like, cool?”

“Yeah.” Harry swallows. Blonde. Okay. He can definitely handle this. “No, it’s good, it looks good.”

“Good.” They stand there smiling at each other. It’s something Liam makes fun of them for—well, everyone makes fun of them for, Harry’s seen how Ned ribs Zayn for it when he hangs out with Zayn’s friends, and Gigi had loved to mock them for it—but Harry could spend ages just smiling at Zayn, tracing the lines of his face, the sharp edges of his beard and sweep of his eyelashes.

“Anyway.” Harry shakes his head. Maybe. Soon. He can say something. Make his move, like Liam said. But not in an airport, and not before a weekend away where he doesn’t want to make things weird. “We should, um. We should go.”

“Yeah.” Zayn lifts his hand like he’s going to push his hair away, then pauses as he remembers he cut it. He lets his hand drop down to his backpack. “You check us in?”

Harry hands over his boarding pass. They get through security fairly easily—Harry’d forgotten, sometimes, that Zayn had started travelling more with Gigi, hadn’t been the homebody Harry had known for the first few years. But he goes through security easily, even manages not to say anything when one of the TSA agents gives him a clearly wary scan.

“So,” Harry says, as they sit down by the gate. He’s been thinking about this. “Do we need to come up with a story?”

“A story?”

“Like, us.” Harry gestures between them. “How we met, how long we’ve been going out, all those things.”

“I still think I should be a spy.”

Harry rolls his eyes. “No one would believe you’re a spy.”

“Why not?” Zayn demands. “I could totally be a spy.”

Harry laughs, and presses his finger into the lines on Zayn’s forehead, where his frustration is clear. “You’re a shit liar.”

“I could be a good liar,” Zayn protests, but he laughs, and leans back, so his face moves too far away for Harry to touch. Harry’s only a little disappointed. “Fine then. What do you want to talk about? I already know you well enough to fake it.”

“Yeah, but not…we need logistics.” Harry watches a woman walk past, nearly dragging her daughter in her hurry to get to her gate. “Like, how long have we been dating? That’ll be a big one.”

“Has to be long enough I’d come with you,” Zayn points out.

“But it can’t be more than a few months.”

“Why not?”

“You haven’t been single for more than that.” When Zayn continues to give Harry a confused look, he sighs. “Zayn, you were pretty public with Gigi. People might know when you broke up.”

“No one cared.”

“People cared.” Harry had, whether from masochism or sympathy or just curiosity, gone onto twitter, after the break up. People had cared. Even when he wasn’t famous, people had cared who Gigi Hadid was dating, and when they were as hot as Zayn, more people cared. There had been sobbing about the death of Zigi, people speculating what had happened, people hating one or the other for what they’d supposedly done. It wasn’t like Brangelina had gotten a divorce or anything, but people cared. “And if one person did, and we say we’ve been dating longer than that, everything’s blown.”

“Fine then.” Zayn shrugs, and leans back. “So, three months then?”

“That means you jumped right into bed with me? No, give yourself a little time. Let’s say two months.”

Zayn nods, but he shoots Harry a sidelong look, one of the ones filled with mischief that make Harry very wary and more than a little turned on. “Who says we jumped into bed right away? Maybe I’m waiting.”

Harry can’t resist the opening. He puts his hand on Zayn’s thigh, just high enough to be suggestive, and leans forward, licking his lips like he knows draws the eyes right there. He lets his voice go lower, rougher. “Trust me, mate. You wouldn’t be waiting.”

He knows he’s not imagining how Zayn’s eyes flick to his lips, before back up to his eyes, just a little wide and, he thinks, maybe a little darker, like he’s thinking about Harry’s lips. About what they wouldn’t be waiting for.

“Yeah.” Zayn’s the first to move, straightening up. He doesn’t, Harry notes, move Harry’s hand off his thigh. “Um, like. Okay. So we are sleeping together, then?”

“No one would believe it otherwise.” Harry takes a deep breath, trying to will his heartbeat even. Those moments—the flirtation—it’s not new. There’s a reason Harry drifted into Zayn before he noticed. They’ve always flirted, even when Zayn had his girlfriends. Things that didn’t mean anything, from two naturally flirty people.

But it’s a good sign, definitely. For the wooing.

“Right, you’re the one who got caught in the middle of a threesome at what, fifteen?” Zayn snorts. “Were you always such a slag?”

“Pretty much.” Harry grins. He’s not so old he’s not a little proud of teenager him. “So yeah, no one’s going to believe we’re not sleeping together. They all know I’d jump you as soon as I got the chance.” He makes a grabbing motion at Zayn, and Zayn knocks it away, laughing. “So, we’ve been going out two months, and we’re sleeping together. Should we figure out more? How often do you stay over? Are we a gross PDA sort of couple, or a low key one? Do we do that thing where we finish each other’s sentences?”

“Haz.” Zayn cuts him off, laughing. “We’ll figure it out, babe.”

“You don’t call me that.”

It comes out before Harry can stop it, and Zayn raises his eyebrows. “What?”

Shit. “You don’t call me babe,” Harry goes with it, because he can’t stop now. Now it’ll just draw more attention to it if he does stop.

“I call everyone babe,” Zayn says, slowly. He’s peering at Harry like maybe he’s gotten confused in the last thirty seconds. Harry’s a bit worried he has.

“Exactly.” He can’t say the rest of it—that whenever he hears Zayn call someone babe, he thinks of him with Gigi, and he doesn’t want to think of that. He wants this to be clear of that. He knows it’s just a tic of Zayn’s, mainly, Harry suspects, because he’s shit with names, but. But Harry doesn’t want the sloppy seconds of a pet name. “Just, don’t, okay?”

“Why?”

“Zayn.”

“Harry,” Zayn mocks, because he’s an asshole who doesn’t let things go ever, especially when he can tell there’s something underneath it. “Baaaabe.”

“Shut up,” Harry snaps, and shifts away. “Zayn, leave it.”

“Fine.” The way he says it makes Harry think it’s more a pause than a permanent letting it go, but he’ll take what he can get. “We’ll get everything else, though. It’ll be fine. I’ll be the best boyfriend ever.”

“Hah.”

“I will,” Zayn promises. “I’m very good at being arm candy by now. I can even try to go back to full sugar baby twink, if you want.” He ducks his head, so he’s looking at Harry through his eyelashes. “Why Harry, you’re so brilliant! Everyone, did you know how brilliant Harry is? He’s going to make so much money and support me in the manner to which I’ve become accustomed.”

It gets Harry to laugh, which he thinks was Zayn’s intent, and he shoves at him until he stops. “You’re the one supporting me, Mr. I-have-a-successful-business-of-my-own. I’m still making negative money.”

Zayn waves that away. “You’ll make more money this summer than I ever have. Mr. Davis Polk intern.”

“Yeah, but not, like. Hadid money.” And there’s another thing Harry regrets coming out of his mouth as soon as he’s said it. Zayn shoots him another look, one that isn’t quite suspicious—the quiet, intent one he gets when he’s figuring out a puzzle, when he’s trying to find the best way to put things together so they make sense.

“Haz—”

“Jet Blue Flight 89 to San Diego will now begin its preboarding,” the loudspeaker announces, and Zayn jolts a little, his hands tightening into fists. Harry tries not to be thankful about the surprise, but at least it distracts Zayn from questioning where that came from.

“You going to be okay?” Harry asks.

Zayn nods. “Yeah. I’ll just fall asleep on the plane. It’s just, like. The nerves haven’t gone away.”

“Well, think of fun ways you asked me out, that’ll distract you until we can board.”

“Who says I asked you out?” Zayn protests, and the argument does in fact manage to distract them until they get on the plane.

Like Zayn said, he’s out almost as soon as they sit down, before the flight attendant’s finished her safety announcement. Harry’s seen Zayn asleep so many times, because he falls asleep on him and Liam’s couch a lot, but he’ll never get tired of looking at him like this. Of the softness in his face, his eyelashes against his cheekbones. His newly blonde hair falls over his forehead like Harry remembers seeing in pictures of him in university, looking so young, like the arts student he’d been. Somehow he even manages to be attractive like this, asleep cramped on a plane seat. It’s not fair. How’s Harry supposed to hold out against that?

Maybe. Soon. He won’t have to.

Harry shakes his head, and plugs his headphones into the arm of his seat. He spends the flight watching cooking shows, and trying not to think about what’s going to happen when they land.

\---

Harry’s mom and Robin were apparently too busy to come get them at the airport, but it’s only an Uber ride north. Zayn almost falls asleep during that too, but Harry is just breathing in the air. He loves New York, he does, but there’s nothing like California. He missed palm trees.

Zayn wakes up a little as the car pulls into their neighborhood. His eyebrows are a little raised, and he shakes his head as he pulls into the neighborhood. “Beachfront, Harry?”

“What’s a California house without it?” Harry asks. Zayn’s gaze is still flicking over all the houses, and he knows there’s judgment there. “What?”

“Nothing. I’ve just never seen where you grew up before.”

“Only since I was like ten.” Harry waits for the car to pull up in front of their condo, then gets out. Zayn follows him, still looking around like he’s trying to memorize it. “I know it’s not, like, a mansion or anything—”

“Harry, it’s a beachfront property in California.” Zayn chuckles. “I’d have hated you if I met you ten years ago, you know? I had a lot of class anger then.”

“Yeah, yeah. You’re still making more money than me. And have less debt. And also dated an actual millionaire, and met a lot more than I ever have. Come on. Thank you!” Harry tells the Uber driver, who has set their bags next to them, then leads Zayn inside.

Like California itself, the condo’s a breath of fresh air, as far from New York as he could imagine. Space and sun and the beach, inside and out; the comfort that comes from remembering being here as a kid, from growing up. Plenty had changed since then—Harry’s indecision with interior design was inherited honestly—but it still feels the same. Like all he has to do is be here, and his mom will take care of everything else. Except for worrying about his future, but he’d like to forget that part.

“This is really nice, Harry.” Zayn looks around, then goes to the big plate glass windows in the living room, that overlook the beach. “Wow.”

“Yeah, well.” Harry shrugs. “Um, so, you can sleep in Gemma’s room—or I guess it’s the guest bedroom, now. I told my mom what we’re doing, so she won’t expect us to share a room or anything.”

“What was her reaction?” Zayn laughs, but he picks his bag up and follows Harry upstairs to where both his and Gemma’s rooms have been more or less converted into an office and a guest room, respectively.

“That she’s given up on me, I think. She’s excited to meet you, though. Apparently I talk about you a lot.”

“And yet somehow, I don’t manage to nose into your Skyping home.”

“Just because I happened to be there once, it wasn’t nosing in!” Harry protests. He pushes open the door to what was once Gemma’s room. His mom redid it nicely though, all signs of Gemma’s aggressive teenaged rebellion gone, leaving cheery off-white walls and a white linen bedspread. It’s very beachy. “That wasn’t my fault. This is you.”

“My sisters care more about you now than they do me,” Zayn mock-sulks, as he sets his bag down. “I think my mom does too.”

“I missed your dad, then? I’ll have to find a way to catch him too.”

“Stay away from my father,” Zayn warns, and kicks at Harry’s leg gently. Harry dodges, laughing a little.

“Okay, so, like. We can just hang around tonight, and tomorrow morning, I guess. The reunion’s not until that evening, then there’ll probably be an afterparty. My mom and Robin will be here soon, I guess they were out to dinner or something.”

“Dinner sounds good,” Zayn points out. Harry, now that he’s thinking about it, agrees. “I guess there’s no Seamless here?”

“Not that I know of.” Harry leads them back out, down to the kitchen. “I’ll make you something, though. This is a full service vacation.”

Zayn leers cheerfully at him. “Full-service?”

“Whatever you want, baby,” Harry agrees, winking. He is a good liar. Or maybe he’s not a good liar at all.

\---

Harry ignores the Liam voice in his head telling him that he needs to woo Zayn, and lets Zayn help make dinner. It mainly ends in them bickering about the right way to cook the chicken they’d found in the fridge marked for them, but it’s fun. Comfortable. It makes Harry wonder if he could do this forever, sniping playfully at Zayn while Zayn makes the salad and Harry sets the table.

Anne and Robin come home when they’re doing the dishes. Harry runs right into his mother’s arms, of course, nearly bowling her over like he always used to do, as Robin laughs next to them. He gives Robin a hug too, once he’s done, then introduces them to Zayn.

They go to bed early that night, because jet lag still applies despite not having seen his family in a while—the problems of living on the opposite coast. Zayn’s quiet, like he generally is with new people, sitting on the couch next to Harry with watchful eyes, but Harry can’t help looking at him, trying to drawing him in. Hoping he’s having fun. Hoping he likes Harry’s family, more maybe than he ought to.

When Harry finally goes to bed, he doesn’t think about how Zayn’s sleeping just next door. It’s not like it’s the first time that’d happen, all the times Zayn’s crashed on Harry and Liam’s couch, and Harry’s long since learned how not to imagine what would happen if Zayn was sleeping next to him instead.

\---

Harry wakes up early. It’s probably because of the jet lag, but it feels like it’s California’s magic, waking up with the sun on his face, the sound of the beach outside. There’s just such—possibility here, maybe. He loves New York, but something about this morning feels like anything could happen.

He gets up, responds to Liam’s text of _wooing complete yet?_ with _we just got here, no!_ , then digs out some of the old running clothes he still keeps here, and sets off down the beach. It’s hard, his legs aching from running in the sand after years of running on cement, but there’s nothing like it, and he comes back to the house energized and cleansed. Like he can do anything. He’s ready for tonight.

Everyone’s up, even Zayn—the jet lag must have gotten him, because otherwise Harry knows he doesn’t get up if he doesn’t have to, another one of the perks of being self-employed. But they’re all there in the living room and kitchen when he closes the door from the beach—Anne at the stove, making something, Robin sitting at the table reading the paper, Zayn leaning against the counter, his hands wrapped around a coffee mug. He must have gotten ready before he came out, because he’s in more black jeans, this time in a band t-shirt.

“Morning!” Harry chirps, walking in. He presses a kiss to his mother’s cheek, careful not to touch her with his sweaty body. “Hope I didn’t hold anything up.”

“I was just catching up with your friend here.” There’s something in the way she says ‘friend’ that makes Harry wonder, but when he glances at Zayn, he just shrugs. It doesn’t seem like he’s gotten anything wrong.

“We have to make sure he’ll be a proper fake boyfriend, after all!” Robin chuckles. Harry laughs too, and bounces over to Zayn. He feels bouncy.

“And what was the verdict?” he asks, stealing Zayn’s mug. Zayn gives him the sort of glare he reserves only for those who argue with him about his comics things and those who disturb his caffeine. Harry’s never done the former, because he doesn’t know enough to care, but he’s been inured about the latter, and takes a sip anyway. It’s a little too sweet, same way Zayn always takes it, but it’s drinkable.

“I haven’t been kicked out yet,” Zayn tells him, taking the mug back.

“I was just saying how it’s so silly you think you need to impress these people,” Harry’s mom says, throwing something onto the griddle that sizzles.

“Mom—” Harry starts, before the look can start on Zayn’s face.

“It’s turkey bacon, I do listen when you go on about him.” She twists to look at Zayn. “That’s fine, right?”

“Yeah, that’s fine. Thanks.” Zayn rubs at the back of his neck, awkward. Then he shoots a glance at Harry. “You go on about me?”

“I go on about all my friends,” Harry tells him, which isn’t exactly a lie. He may talk about Zayn more. Whatever. Time to change the subject. “Do I have time to change?”

“Yes, go on.” His mom waves her hand, and Harry steals one more sip from Zayn’s mug before he goes, dancing away from the smack Zayn aims at him.

He showers quickly, pulls his hair back, then pulls on one of the flowered shirts he always feels silly wearing on the East Coast, but works here. Zayn grins when he comes back in, his gaze flicking up and down him.

“Don’t you look like a proper California boy?”

“I am a California boy.” Harry laughs, and hip checks Zayn gently. He takes the mug again, but as it’s nearly empty, this time he takes it to the coffeemaker to refill it. “What about you? You don’t look California at all.”

Zayn shrugs. “You can’t take the city out of the boy.”

“You’re not a New Yorker.” Harry adds the sugar, then hands Zayn his mug back. Zayn takes a sip, smiles gratefully. “You love the sun and sand, don’t lie.”

“The sun, maybe,” Zayn admits. He glances at his phone, grins at it, then types something back. “Ned said that same thing. He’s worried I won’t come back.”

“You could run a business cross-country,” Harry agrees. He doesn’t think about it, really. About what’s going to happen next year, when Harry graduates, gets a real job. Would he want to come back here? He’s sure that he could get it out of Davis Polk, that they could get him to the California offices, if not San Diego or LA. But—his life’s been in New York for six years, now, and he knows he shouldn’t think about it, but he doesn’t know if Zayn would want to be out here full time. Not that it’s a real consideration yet, but he hopes it could be. If he ever manages the time to say something.

“And be even farther from my family?” Zayn makes a skeptical face. “Six hours is bad enough.”

“I don’t know how you do it,” Anne agrees. Harry jumps a little, and he thinks he sees Zayn twitch in surprise. They must have both forgotten they weren’t alone. “I miss Harry, and he’s in the same country as me.”

“It’s not easy,” Zayn admits. “Especially because, like, my dad doesn’t love to travel, and flights are expensive. It was easier, um. Before.” He stumbles a little over the last word, but Harry knows what it means. It was easier when he could tag along on Gigi’s shoots in Europe, in the UK, and not have to pay. “Can I help with anything?” Zayn goes on quickly, to cover his lapse.

“If you could just take this—great.” She hands him a plate, and Zayn takes it. “Harry, come here, you can help too.”

“I was planning on it!” Harry objects, but he takes three glasses of orange juice obediently.

Zayn has work to get done after breakfast, and Harry has some emails to send, so they settle on the deck, across from each other on the picnic table there. Harry tries to concentrate, but he doesn’t really have much to do—that’ll change when he starts his internship in a few weeks, he knows, but for right now, he’s mostly free except for a research project he’s working on with a professor—and well, it’s distracting. To watch Zayn in the California summer sun, his blonde hair shining in it. He doesn’t look beachy at all, but it works on the beach—juxtaposition or something, something aesthetic that Zayn would know but Harry doesn’t. Or maybe it’s Zayn’s uncanny ability to fit in anywhere, to change like he had talked about in his apartment back in New York. To fit in his tiny apartment and on the red carpet. To sit in a New York coffeeshop to work and Harry’s deck, with the same bright look in his eyes and press of his lips together as he considers his screen, whatever project he’s working on now.

Harry must stare too long, because Zayn looks up, gives him a small smile, one of the ones Harry likes as much as his huge grins because it’s just for him. “What’s up?”

“Nothing.” Harry shakes his head. It’s not the time. He knows that. Not with the reunion coming up, and Zayn not sufficiently wooed, even if Liam’s texting him constantly to remind him to do that. “Just, I’m glad you’re here.”

“Me too.” Zayn kicks at Harry’s shin, gently. “Thanks.”

“We’ll see if you’re still thanking me tomorrow morning.”

Zayn snorts. “It can’t be that bad. We’ll make nice with a bunch of rich kids, drink some wine, you’ll win Reunion King or whatever they have, maybe we’ll solve a murder. It’ll be great.”

Harry blinks. “Solve a murder?”

“Isn’t that what happens in American reunions?” Zayn is really shit at hiding his smile; it’s sneaking out at the corner of his eyes and lips, in a way that’s far too kissable for Harry’s peace of mind. “That’s what all the TV shows tell me.”

“What TV were you watching?”

“I dunno, Pysch, I think?” Zayn pauses, then, “You’re Shawn, by the way. I’m Gus, because I’m not white and not insane.”

“Excuse you!” Harry scoffs. “I’m not the one who does crazy things.” And he doesn’t want to be Shawn and Gus, he doesn’t say. Not platonic bromances.

“Like suggest taking a fake boyfriend to your reunion?”

“That was Liam,” Harry objects. “I want that on the record if this all goes up in flames. That was Liam, and we should blame him.”

“Even if we’re heroes because we solved the murder?” Zayn looks far more excited about a murder than Harry thinks he should be. “I’ve always wanted to be a hero.”

“Yeah, I know. You only dressed as a superhero every Halloween. Or chance you could get.”

Zayn doesn’t deny it, mainly because he can’t. It’s not like Harry denies all the spandex looked good on him. He just grins. “That’s not true! I was a Jedi once.”

“Because that’s not a hero at all.”

“You were Aragorn that year.”

“Hey, Lord of the Rings is literature.” Harry keeps a straight face when he says it.

“And Aragorn is hot,” Zayn adds, and Harry nods. No one can deny that. “Those leathers, man.”

“Yeah? Did you like the leather?” Harry asks, and his voice curls suggestively around the words. He’d looked good in that costume, and he knew it. Even if Zayn had only seen it before they’d gone off to different parties, Zayn off to some big thing with Gigi and her friends, Zayn in his Jedi robes and Gigi in Leia’s white dress with her hair twisted into the two buns. “You were turned on by me with a sword, don’t lie?”

Zayn smirks, slow and knowing. “Who doesn’t love a man with a big sword?”

It’s one of those moments again, the two of them suspended in time.

Then Harry’s phone buzzes, and it’s broken, Harry looking at the text he’d just gotten from Jeff. By the time he’s replied, Zayn’s back at work at his computer. And if he’s a little flushed, Harry can’t tell if it’s the thought of Harry in his costume or the sun.

\---

Harry already picked out his outfit for the reunion, but he still dresses carefully, makes sure his hair is in impeccable curls, his pink shirt’s arranged correctly beneath his jacket. He’s still out sooner than Zayn, so he steals some of the celery his mom is cooking with, and munches on that while he scans Instagram.

“Okay, good?” Harry looks up, and he knows it’s stupid and cliché but his breath catches.

Zayn’s hair is slicked back, so just hints of the dark of his roots show through. He’s not in a suit, in dark jeans and a dark shirt, but the jacket makes it look formal—or high fashion, maybe, a blue bomber jacket with embroidered flowers and birds over it. It’s just so Zayn, the whole thing—somehow a combination of delicacy and masculinity that turns him into a fashion statement.

“Um.” Harry swallows, finds his voice again. He’s good with words. He’s going to be a great lawyer because of it. But Zayn takes it away. “Yeah, that’s—yeah.”

“It’s not too casual? I thought it might be, I know I should be in a suit, but the jacket’s Dolce and Gabbana, so I thought it’d be okay?” Zayn shifts on his feet. Harry can’t take his eyes off of—well, any of him. If his mom wasn’t here, maybe this would be the moment, the cliché prom thing—but his mom is here, so Harry has to say something.

“No, it’s—how do you have Dolce and Gabbana?” That’s better than gushing about how beautiful he looks.

“I, um. Sometimes, when I was with Gigi, they gave me shit? Like, if I wore it when I was around her and photographed and shit. This was one.” Zayn runs a hand over the silk of the jacket. It looks smooth. Harry wants to touch. To touch, then strip him out of it, and now is not the time. “I wanted, like. To look like a good boyfriend.”

“You look great.” Harry pauses a second, then, “What about me? Now it’s your turn.”

“You always look amazing, Haz.” Harry knows he’s blushing, but looking away now would mean admitting it. “Even if that shirt’s loud enough I could hear it from the bathroom.”

“You’re wearing a jacket with birds on it, you don’t get to complain.” Harry pokes him to make his point, then tugs so that the jacket sits straighter on his shoulders. “Ready, darling?”

“So you can call me darling but I can’t call you babe?” Zayn whines, but he’s smiling. “This isn’t fair.”

“Shut up,” Harry tells him, then turns to his mother. She’s giving him a knowing sort of look, one he hopes Zayn can’t interpret. “We’ll be back late, probably.”

“Have fun.” She smiles at them, waves the hand not holding a knife. “Be thankful I’m not taking prom pictures of you too.”

“Come on before she does,” Harry mutters, and gets a hand around Zayn’s wrist to drag him out.

\---

Harry had timed it so that they’d get to the school fashionably late, but it’s all Zayn’s fault they’re just late. He tells Zayn that, as they pull up to the school parking lot, but Zayn just laughs.

“Did you expect anything else?” he asks, which Harry has to admit is a decent point. “Wow, this isn’t anything like my secondary school.”

Harry looks outside it. He’s never seen Zayn’s secondary school, but he would imagine a Bradford state school is a far cry from the San Diego private school, with its Spanish-style architecture on the three buildings, the big glass windows, the verdant landscaping.

“Make your rich boy cracks now,” he warns, and parks the car. The school hasn’t changed much in the years since he’s been here. The inside of the gym has apparently been renovated, though he can’t see that from here, and they did some new tech initiative, according to his mom, but from where he’s sitting, it still looks basically the same as when he graduated on the lawn in front of the main building.

“I’m saving them up,” Zayn informs him, and gets out. His hand goes to his jacket, tugging it straight. “Got to pick and choose the best ones.”

“Fine. Just don’t—”

“I won’t embarrass you, don’t worry.” Zayn’s jaw is set, but he reaches out, and grabs Harry’s hand. Harry can’t quite help how his breath catches, at the press of Zayn’s hand, but he intertwines their fingers. That’s what he’d do, if he were Zayn’s boyfriend for real. “Told you, I know how to be arm candy.”

“You’re more than that,” Harry protests, but it’s hard to concentrate with his palm pressed against Zayn’s. His hand’s a little bigger than Zayn’s, but they fit, it feels like. When he looks down, their hands look good together, their rings clinking together.

“Fine.” Zayn gives a lopsided smile. “Arm candy and kept man. Now come on. I want to see the theme of the evening. Can I make fun of the decorations?”

“Can I stop you?” Harry asks, knowing it’s rhetorical, and Zayn laughs as they walk up the path where the signs are pointing them.

Zayn’s eyes are big as he looks around—not afraid, just watchful, like he’s taking in the setting to best fit into it. It makes Harry a little wary—sometimes Zayn is unpredictable, and it’s still possible he’s going to decide to be contrary.

The decorations are not as bad as they could be, is Harry’s final decision. At least not in the atrium, where the check in table is, with two women smiling over a table of nametags. Some streamers, in the school colors of red and gold, and a big WELCOME BACK banner. He doesn’t know what’s going to happen in the cafeteria where the actual reunion is taking place, but he doesn’t think Zayn has anything to make fun of here.

“Is one of them your nemesis?” Zayn whispers, as they approach the table. “The blonde, right? It’s always the blonde.”

Harry doesn’t think about his lips brushing Harry’s ear, and instead turns to give him a blank look. “How many reunion movies have you been watching?”

Zayn shrugs. “I did my homework. The woman at the first table is always your nemesis, though.” He pauses. “I wish I had a nemesis.”

“Well, I don’t. And I didn’t have one. That’s…” Harry narrows his eyes, trying to identify them. “Um. The blonde was, um, Tegan, I think? She was in student government. And the brunette is, um…”

“Hi!” The brunette calls, before he can finish identifying them. “Harry Styles, as I live and breathe. We were so happy to see you were coming!”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Harry tells her, ignoring Zayn’s quiet snort, and leans over the table to hug her. “And hi, Tegan!”

“Hi!” She grins, and turns her cheek for two quick kisses. “How are you?”

“Good! Doing really well, yeah. And you two?”

“Oh we’re both doing great.” The brunette—Monique, that was her name—tells him, scanning the table. “Here’s your nametag, and here’s one for your plus one, he can just write in his name.”

“Thanks.” It sounds innocent, but Harry shoots Zayn a glare. He knows that silky note. Zayn’s not allowed to be using his flirty voice with anyone but Harry, tonight. Zayn winks back, as Monique blushes a little, because it’s impossible not to be affected by Zayn’s voice when it does that thing.

“Um. Yes.” Monique tucks her hair behind her ear. “So, have a good time!”

“We will.” Harry wraps his hand around Zayn’s wrist, and tugs him down the hall. “What was that?” he demands, in a whisper.

“What was what?” Zayn gives him a smile that Harry knows perfectly well isn’t innocent at all. It’s his ‘I’m being an asshole but I’m pretty so you’ll forgive me’ smile. It works annoyingly well annoyingly often.

“My boyfriend wouldn’t flirt with someone else when I’m right next to them.” You shouldn’t flirt with other people when I’m right here, Harry would say, but he’s not quite sure how to phrase that without giving everything away.

“Yeah he would.” At Harry’s look, Zayn chuckles. “Harry, you’re a flirt. Your boyfriend probably would be one too. I’m getting into character.”

“You don’t need to be in character,” Harry mutters, but he doesn’t think Zayn’s heard it over his snort as they get into the cafeteria. “What?”

“Are you sure we’re not in a TV show?” Zayn asks. Harry looks around. He can admit it’s a little cliché, the streamers and flashing lights and yearbook pictures and all of those things, but it’s not too over the top, he thinks. And there’s already plenty of people here, plenty of whom Harry at least sort of recognizes. The advantages of being not-so-fashionably late, he guesses.

“At least it’s not a thanks for the memories theme,” He points out, and Zayn hums his agreement. “Want punch?”

“Only if it’s spiked.” But Zayn edges just a tiny bit closer, and moves his hand so that they’re properly holding hands now. His palms are dry, but Harry can see the way his gaze is flicking over the crowds, so he squeezes Zayn’s palm reassuringly. Zayn gives him a smile in response, a tiny private little thing, and Harry’s stomach does that fluttery thing again. Wooing, he reminds himself. He has to start that off. “You want to mingle, then?”

“Do you?”

“I’m just here to be arm candy.” With his free hand, Zayn tugs at his jacket, straightening it, then pushes at his hair. “You’re in charge.” He flutters his eyelashes at Harry, and Harry can’t help but laugh and shove at him.

“Shut up,” he orders, as Zayn laughs. “But yeah, we can mingle on our way to the food.”

Zayn keeps a firm grip on Harry’s hand as Harry moves forward into the crowd. He greets the people he remembers, makes small talk as Zayn hovers at his side. Harry can see the looks they get too, the admiring glances, and he can’t help but preen a little. They look good together. No one else has a boyfriend as hot as Zayn.

“Harry Styles!” Harry turns, but he knows that voice—he’s already half flinching, waiting for a nipple tweak or something.

But Louis must have grown up since they graduated, because all Harry gets is a strong hug, quick and hard before Louis lets go and gives Harry space to think.

He looks good. Harry’s not surprised, Louis was always attractive, but he’s aged well, settled into adulthood without losing the mischief that always made him so irresistible. His eyes are as bright as ever, his smile as sharp. “Louis!” Harry grins. “How are you? I didn’t think you’d be here.”

Louis shrugs. “Well, Danielle wanted to come, so I thought I’d tag along.” He gestures over to the food table. “She’s over there.”

“Right, I saw you two were together.” Harry remembers Danielle, though they were never close, a clever, no nonsense girl with a quick laugh and a quicker temper. From the Instagram pictures, they seem happy. “And how’s Freddie?”

“He’s good. About to start preschool, which is fucking weird.” Louis snorts. “I have pictures, I’ll show you them after you introduce me to your friend.”

“Oh, right.” Zayn’s been remarkably quiet, really, but Harry wonders if that’s what he meant by arm candy—hovering next to him, watching everything. “This is Zayn, my fr—boyfriend.” He hopes Louis didn’t notice the stumble. He tugs Zayn closer in case he did, wrapping an arm around Zayn’s waist. Zayn comes easily, leaning into Harry’s side like he does it every day. Which isn’t too far off, really; they are pretty cuddly. “Zayn, this is Louis, he’s one of my oldest friends.”

“Nice to meet you.” Zayn holds out his hand, and Louis takes it, his grip probably a shade too hard, if Louis hasn’t changed.

“You too. So you managed to tame Harry, did you?”

“Why would anyone want to do that?” Zayn retorts, and presses a kiss to Harry’s cheek. “He’s so sexy like this.” Harry knows he’s smiling stupidly, but he can’t help it. He just turns his head so Louis can’t see that smile.

“Shut up,” he mumbles, and feels as much as hears Zayn’s laugh.

“Never,” he teases, and his hand squeezes Harry’s hip. This was a horrible idea. Harry’s not going to last this evening without combusting. “But yeah, Louis. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“All of it good, I’m sure?” Louis’s got his hard look on towards Zayn, the one that always made Harry nervous. If Zayn was ever going to get anxious, this would be when, under Louis’s gaze. Harry’d been sort of happy he wouldn’t be seeing Louis, really. He hadn’t been sure he wanted to expose Zayn to him, because they could be explosive together.

But Zayn meets the gaze calmly, his lips even twitching like he found Louis amusing. “None of it good, really. Did you really dye the pool purple?”

“I can neither confirm nor deny.” Louis’s grin makes it clear what he’s doing, though. “Harry’s the future lawyer, what’s statute of limitations on that?”

“I don’t think we studied any pool dying cases,” Harry retorts. Louis laughs. That would have been all Harry wanted, once—to make Louis laugh. But it’s like a scar, examining that old crush. Long gone, only the memory of it, almost fond, remaining. Now it’s more important that Zayn giggles into Harry’s shoulder.

“I see you found a friend.” Danielle appears next to Louis with a welcoming smile, handing a cup of punch to Louis. He takes it with one hand, uses the other to grab her hand. Louis was always sweet in a relationship. “Harry, it’s been a while.”  

“Yeah. How are you?”

“Doing well. I got a TV show, I don’t know if you—”

“No, I saw it!” Harry interrupts. He’d watched some, if only because he knew the star. “That’s amazing. Zayn, this is the actress, the one on—”

“Yeah, I remember.” Zayn holds his hand out to her as well. “’m Zayn. His plus one.”

Danielle tries to juggle her cup and Louis’s hand for a second, before she gives up and just waves a little with the hand holding the cup. “Nice to meet you!” She tilts her head, narrowing her eyes. “Or, do I know you from somewhere?”

“I don’t think so?” Zayn shrugs. “Like, no reason for you to.”

“Despite his looks, he’s not a model,” Harry tells her.

“Or not for anyone but you,” Zayn throws back, and his smile is wicked as he looks at Harry. His knees go a little weak. He’d known what flirting with Zayn was like, but he hadn’t know how heady getting all of Zayn’s attention would be, the full weight of his flirtation.

“Gross.” Louis pretends to gag. “So, what do you do then, Zayn?”

“I’m a florist,” Zayn replies quickly, and Harry chokes and snorts. Louis glares.

“What?”

Harry nudges at Zayn’s side, and he grins at Harry before replying. “Nah, like. I’m a graphic designer.”

“He’s got his own business already,” Harry interrupts, because Zayn never says that part. “He’s had some major accounts.”

Zayn chuckles, pushing up at his sleeves. “I mean, I get by.”

“He’s brilliant,” Harry adds. Zayn ignores him, but he’s got a pleased smile on.

“So, like. You’re a teacher, Harry said?” he asks Louis. “I—”

“You’re Gigi Hadid’s boyfriend!” Danielle announces, suddenly, and because Harry’s so close to Zayn he can feel him freeze. “I knew I knew you from somewhere.”

“Um, like—”

“Ex,” Harry points out sharply. “Ex boyfriend.”

“Right, obviously.” Danielle agrees. “But you are her ex, right? I thought I’d seen you before. You had that suit, at the Met Gala, everyone was talking about the two of you—”

“With the arms, right!” Louis piles on. Zayn’s tensing, and Harry starts looking for an exit. Zayn’s over Gigi, he knows he is, but this is the sort of thing that Zayn dwells on. Whether he’ll always just be Gigi Hadid’s ex-boyfriend, what he is for himself, all the existential questions that Harry personally thinks would be best resolved by pretending they didn’t exist, but that’s not how Zayn works.

“A suit having arms, that’s breathtakingly original,” Harry drawls, trying to divert.

Louis ignores him, though. “No, that was sick, bro. Was it seriously inspired by Metal Gear Solid?”

“Um, yeah. I mean, like. It was weird, when I was with her—I wasn’t a model but they sort of used me as one anyway.” Zayn shrugs. “So like, I talked with people and—I mean, the theme was about robots, right? So sure. I went video games.”

“You’re my hero,” Louis declares. “Danielle, Harry, sorry. I’m running away with him.”

Danielle laughs, but Harry can’t help the way his fingers tighten on Zayn. “No.”

“It’s okay, b—Harry.” Zayn turns to him, so he can tuck a lock of Harry’s hair behind his ear. Harry’s breath only catches a little. “You know I’m all yours.”

Zayn’s face is just so close. Harry loves looking at him like this, at each of his eyelashes, at the freckle in one eye. Zayn’s hand is against his cheek and his eyes look dark in the uneven lighting, and there’s a bit of a smile at the corners of his eyes. Harry could look at him for ages, for years, and still not fully appreciate all the nuances of his face.

“I take that back. I don’t think I could stomach that.” Louis snorts. Harry tears his gaze away, back to where Louis and Danielle are still watching.

“Don’t know what you’re missing,” Zayn says, before Harry can get anything out.

Louis raises his eyebrows, but doesn’t say anything. Harry should say something, should change the subject, but he still can’t quite breathe right. Is this wooing? He hopes it is.

“So the gang’s back together, then?” The voice comes from behind Harry, and Harry’s grinning already as he lets go of Zayn to turn.

“Niall!” he pulls Niall into a hug, which Niall returns heartily. He looks different—his hair is it’s natural brown, like it wasn’t all through high school, and he’s in a suit that he looks comfortable in, which was a far cry from the tank top and gym shorts he’d lived in, but he’s still Niall—and Harry’s seen countless selfies of him on Instagram anyway.

“Come here,” Louis demands, when Harry’s let go of Niall, and he hugs him too. “So you decided to slum it with us?”

“Of course I’m coming back to the old alma mater. Go wolves!” Niall cheers loudly, and it gets an echo from everyone else in the room, because Harry’s always thought Niall was a cheerleader in another life.

“Niall makes more money than the rest of us put together, up in Silicon Valley,” Louis tells Zayn.

“That’s not true. James is doing some consulting and making a shit ton, and he’s here.” Niall replies easily. “This the boyfriend I’ve been hearing you brought, Harry?” He turns to Zayn, grins broadly as he sticks out his hand. “Niall Horan.”

Zayn’s smiling, because apparently that hasn’t changed—you can’t not smile around Niall. “Zayn Malik.”

“Pleasure.” Niall looks around at them all. “And Danielle! How’ve you been?”

Niall’s always been good at conversation, and easing people in; after five minutes conversation with him Zayn’s laughing and joking like they’ve always been friends. It’s a far cry from how long it took him and Harry to get along, to figure out their rhythms and where they couldn’t push each other. But they got there in the end, which is what matters, Harry reminds himself. They got there, and now he’s holding Zayn’s hand, and Zayn’s giving him sideways little check in glances as they chat.

“Let’s get more drinks, Harry,” Louis orders. “Come on.”

Louis’s clearly not lost his power of command; they rearrange and follow Louis’s orders. Zayn seems easy enough with Niall and Danielle anyway, and it has been a long time since Harry talked to Louis. And maybe he needs a break from Zayn. It’s exhausting, pretending and wanting.

They get all the way to the punch table, greeting people as they go, before Louis turns a pointed look on Harry. “So, Zayn.”  

“No, I’m Harry. Are you forgetting things in your old age?”

Louis glares, but he’s clearly matured because Harry doesn’t get the punch he’d have gotten years ago. “You know what I mean.”

“What about him?” Harry picks up a cup, scoops some punch into it. Louis didn’t warn him about anything and doesn’t look like he’s in the midst of a prank, so it’s probably safe to drink. “Do you like him?”

“He seems great. Top lad. Even I’m attracted to him.” Louis waits a beat, then adds, “Harry, you aren’t fooling me.”

“What do you mean?” Harry stays calm. He knows bravado. He’s a good liar.

“I know what you look like when you’re looking at someone you want but can’t have.” Louis’s voice gentles, goes kind in the way Harry never associates with anything good. “I’ve been on the receiving end of those looks. You and Zayn aren’t together.”

“Of course we are.” Harry scoffs. He glances over to where Zayn’s standing with Niall still, laughing about something. He’s got the curl to his shoulders that means he’s really laughing hard, probably with his nose scrunched up and his eyes dancing. He just had to refocus. This is about wooing Zayn. Convincing him they’d be a good couple. Finding the time to tell him what Harry feels. It’s not really a lie, Harry hopes. Just a pre-truth. “Why would I lie about that?”

“Because you’re weird? I don’t know.” Louis waves a dismissive hand, but his eyes are still so horribly kind. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

Harry’d forgotten how irritating it was when Louis tried to big brother everyone. “I’m fine. Zayn and I are fine. I’m just here to enjoy my reunion.”

“Sure.” Louis clearly isn’t convinced, but Harry doesn’t need him to be. He just shoves away from the table, heading back towards Zayn.

He doesn’t make it. Maybe halfway there, yet again someone says, “Harry Styles?” and taps him on the shoulder.

This time, when he sees who it is, it’s a lot less pleasant.

He didn’t have a nemesis in high school, no matter what Zayn says. He’d gotten long with mostly everyone, and the school was too small for a real rivalry to sustain itself for long. But if Harry had had a nemesis, it would have been Rebecca Goldstein.

“Hi!” he says, grinning. She’s still pretty, her brown hair cut in an attractive and expensive bob, in shape like a strict gym regime can make. Harry hadn’t wanted her to get unattractive, exactly. It just would have been a nice metric to win on. “Rebecca, it’s been too long.”

“I know, I know.” She leans forward, and they brush their lips over both cheeks. “You’re in New York, right? I was there for a few years but now I’m in San Francisco. I think it’s just a nicer vibe, you know?”

“I don’t know. New York’s like nowhere else, to me.” And this is why she’d been Harry’s rival. He knows he was part of it, in retrospect—that he was competitive and so was she, and they’d both filled the same niche in a way that meant they had to compete for best in it. They hadn’t been the smartest kids in the class, but they’d worked hard and known how to work their charm; they’d been the ones who were going to succeed. He’d hoped to avoid this confrontation. Not with him feeling so on edge, and Zayn eternally unpredictable, and his life not where he wished it was. “What are you up to, in San Francisco?” Maybe she was doing nothing. Maybe she was unemployed. It was a faint hope, but it could happen.

“I’m at DLA Piper there—law,” she adds, like Harry didn’t know. “A second year associate, so it’s a lot of work but it’s so interesting! What are you doing, then?”

“I’m at Columbia Law.” As Harry suspects she knew, if she asked it like that. “I took a few years off before going to law school, you know.”

“Right, I remember hearing you did some office work first. And are you enjoying Columbia? I heard it can be a bit competitive—we tried not to have that at Harvard, but that’s a problem at the rest of the T14, right?”

“Hey, love.” That’s all the warning Harry has before Zayn’s next to him, wrapping an arm around his waist that ends possessively on his hip. He’s smiling, but it’s not his usual grin—this is the sort of smile that ends in someone getting punched. “Thought you’d gotten lost.”

His lips brush against Harry’s cheek, but Harry can feel the tension in him, the way he’s pointing it at Rebecca. He must have heard. Harry knows what Zayn sounds like, when he’s leaping to someone’s defense.

“Just got caught up.” Harry wraps a hand around Zayn’s wrist, squeezes warningly. He doesn’t want to make a scene. She’s not worth it, and Zayn has a tendency towards overprotectiveness that often ends in scenes.

“Well, I missed you.” Zayn turns to Rebecca then, and his gaze is fierce. “Who’s this?”

“This is Rebecca. Rebecca, this is my boyfriend, Zayn.” Harry makes the introductions quickly. But it is more than a little gratifying to see her do the thing everyone does when looking at Zayn for the first time, the wide eyed quick once over like they weren’t sure anyone could be that handsome.

“Oh. I heard you were a lawyer?” Zayn asks, his voice still sharp. “Did Harry tell you about his internship?” Zayn never has been subtle. “He’s going to be at Davis Polk this summer.”

Harry’s not sure if it’s the name or just the shock of Zayn, but it makes Rebecca falter. “Oh really? That’s great, Harry.”

“Isn’t it?” Zayn replies, before Harry can get a word in edgewise. “Not that I doubted it. Harry’s the smartest guy I know.” Harry knows for sure that’s a lie, but his cheeks go a little red. “Where did you say you worked again?”

“Zayn,” Harry chides. He doesn’t need this. And this is like, the opposite of wooing. It’s just making Harry fall harder, the way Zayn will leap into battle for him without a thought, even if it’s badly timed and ill-conceived.

“What?” Zayn’s innocent look is really shit. “I’m just making conversation.”

“Zayn,” Harry repeats, trying for stern. It’s not good. He wants to be polite. He isn’t enjoying the look on Rebecca’s face at all. “He just likes to brag about me, sorry,” Harry tells her.

“Who wouldn’t?” Zayn leans his head onto Harry’s shoulder. Harry might explode in a few seconds. “Snagged me my lawyer boyfriend. My mum is so proud.”

Harry can’t help the little pleased wriggle he does at that. He’s pretty sure Zayn’s mum would approve of him, really. She seems to like him, whenever he’s around when Zayn skypes. “Oh, shut up.”

“Never.” Zayn’s smile softens a little, as he looks up at Harry from his shoulder, until it’s something fond and sweet. Harry’s not sure he can breathe.

He forces himself to look away from Zayn, back at Rebecca. She’s watching them interact with something he hasn’t really seen on her face, something wistful. “So, how have you been otherwise?”

“What? Oh, good.” She shakes her head, traces a finger over the rim of her glass. “I really am glad you’re doing well, Harry.” She glances at Zayn. “You seem happy.”

Harry’s arm tightens around Zayn. “I am.”

They say goodbye with insistences they’ll look each other up if they’re in the same city, then Rebecca wanders off and Harry loosens his grip on Zayn a little so he can try to be sterner when he looks at him. “That was uncalled for.”

Zayn shrugs. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“You didn’t need to—”

“I thought you wanted me to act like your boyfriend.” Zayn straightens, steps away from Harry. “That’s how I’d act, if I was your boyfriend.”

“Zayn—”

“Or even as your friend,” Zayn continues, “I wouldn’t let her get away with saying shit like that.”

“It didn’t mean anything. We’ve always been like that.”

“Even better.” Zayn smiles, fierce again. “I thought you wanted to win this, Haz. Can’t win if you don’t brag. And you’re doing great.”

“I—thanks.” Harry sighs, fiddles with his hair. “Just don’t make scenes.”

Zayn laughs. “That wasn’t making a scene, b—Harry. If I wanted to make a scene, I’d start throwing punch or something.”

“Please don’t,” Harry asks, laughing, and Zayn grabs his hand to hold tight.

They mingle more, Zayn staying close to Harry and quiet, but they end up back with Louis and Niall, Danielle having been lost somewhere to her friends. Zayn’s louder there—he and Louis are getting on well in a way that Harry thinks should probably scare him. Harry’s chatting with Niall about football, but he can’t stop stealing glances at Zayn.

He knows he’s not wooing right. He should be more romantic or something, but he’s just not sure how to do that without making it weird. It’s already weird, being here with Zayn. Not even acting as his boyfriend, but the sort of intimacy that comes with being the only person someone knows at a place—the check in looks, the way Zayn gravitates to him, the jokes just between the two of them. It’s just years of friendship, Harry knows that, but it’s so easy to pretend it’s more.

“What sport is this?” Zayn asks, coming up next to Harry. Harry grins at him as Niall gives him an incredulous look.

“He’s sports illiterate,” Harry explains to Niall, then to Zayn, “Football.”

“The American kind?” Zayn clarifies, and Harry nods. Zayn snorts. “Not as good.”

“No argument here,” Niall agrees easily. “I’m a Derby lad. Only stronger loyalty’s to Ireland. Did you know—”

“What happened to Louis?” Harry interrupts, before Niall starts talking about Derby. He could talk about it for hours in high school, even though he’d been in the States since he was fourteen, Harry can’t imagine it’s any better now.

“Danielle came and found him to dance.” Zayn gestures to the center of the room, where a dance floor was cleared. Harry can’t see Louis and Danielle specifically, but that’s just because there are a surprising number of people dancing. Harry’d sort of figured that he was done with awkward public dancing once he graduated high school and had moved on to clubs, but apparently they’re back into the realm of waving their arms around wildly. “Isn’t there supposed to be a disco ball for this part?”

“Did you seriously learn everything you know about reunions from TV shows?” Harry retorts, and Zayn shrugs.

“Don’t know how else I’m supposed to know about them.” He waves an arm around. “This American private school thing is new to me.”

“You went out with Gigi,” Harry has to point out. “She’s basically the epitome of American private school thing.”

Zayn presses his lips together. “She was different.” He’s getting that look again, the taut thing he had when he’d just broken up with Gigi, and Harry doesn’t want that. He’s supposed to be wooing Zayn, not reminding him of his ex.

“Want to dance?”

“What?” Zayn’s expression changes, though Harry’s not sure the utter surprise is an improvement. “No.”

“No?” Niall repeats, laughing. Harry makes a face. That’s selling the boyfriends thing.

“Not like—I don’t dance,” Zayn corrects himself. “You know that, Harry.”

“This isn’t dancing, though.” Harry makes his best pleading face. “It’s swaying. Please?” He flutters his eyelashes, pouting melodramatically. “Pleasssse?”

He can see Zayn give in, because Zayn likes to pretend he’s a hardass but actually he’s a soft touch. “If I step on your toes, it’s your own fault,” he mutters, but he’s also following Harry towards the dance floor with a wave to Niall.

Harry’s never really imagined this. He’s imagined dancing with Zayn, sure, but that was imagining the dirty grind of a club, a beat thumping and their bodies moving together in a prelude to what would happen soon after. He’d imagined sweat and Zayn’s lips on his neck, Zayn’s eyes dark and reflecting flashing lights. But not this—not like they might have danced when they were fifteen, or maybe like they will when they’re forty, Harry’s arms around Zayn’s neck and Zayn’s on Harry’s waist. It’s a little awkward, with Harry taller than Zayn, but he’s not going to say no to being able to fiddle a little with the strands of hair at the nape of Zayn’s neck, like he could feel the bird inked there under the collar of his jacket. And he’s definitely not going to say no to the warmth of Zayn’s hands he can feel through his shirt, resting on his waist like they have a right to be there.

“See? Not too hard,” Harry points out, as _Beautiful_ starts to play and he sets them swaying.

“True, this doesn’t get me going,” Zayn agrees, and Harry snorts out a laugh.

“Really? Christina Aguilera isn’t on all your sex jams?”

“I don’t know what weird indie shit you get off to, but trumpets don’t do it for all of us.”

“It was one time.” Harry sticks out his lip. He knew he never should have said anything about that one time with the band girl. “And at least I’ve never done it to David Attenborough’s voice.”

“You clearly don’t understand the eroticism of whale sharks.” Zayn smiles, somehow both dirtily and wistfully. “Watch Planet Earth and you’ll see.”

“Nerd.”

“You always sound so surprised.” Zayn lifts his head to make a face at Harry, and Harry knows he should try to school his expression into something that isn’t ridiculously fond and amused, but it’s a losing battle. And maybe it’ll help the wooing. “That’s what you got, when you asked—” he glances around surreptitiously—“me out.”

“You’re lucky it’s cute,” Harry teases back.

“Just my nerdiness?”

“You’re lucky you’re cute,” Harry amends, and Zayn smirks likes he won. It’s not like it’s a competition, and even if it was it’s just the truth—Zayn is cute, as well as hot and nerdy and an asshole. But still. “Shut up.”

“Never.” Zayn’s doing his stupid look up at Harry through his eyelashes, the one Harry knows perfectly well he does when he wants something. “You’re lucky you’re so cute.”

Harry knows he’s blushing, and ducks his head. Zayn laughs, and moves closer to rest his head on Harry’s shoulder. Harry’s breath catches. They’re not close like they would have been if they were grinding, but it’s more intimate somehow—Zayn’s cheek against his skin, his breaths against Harry’s neck. If Harry looked down, he could probably see all of Zayn’s eyelashes. Maybe now is the time, maybe here on the dance floor to a song that reminds Harry of being young and optimistic, maybe now is the time.

“Are we looking good?” Zayn murmurs into Harry’s ear. It’s a soft, husky whisper; it takes Harry a second to register the words.

“Hm?”

“Looking loved up. Are we doing well?”

Harry swallows. Right. This isn’t real, it’s not the time. Zayn so close isn’t real, it’s just a show. He just needs to figure out how to tip it over. Dancing is wooing, and Harry knows they were flirting before, but that’s not new. Zayn clearly hasn’t taken it as anything new.

“Yeah,” Harry sighs, and ducks his head so his nose is mainly in Zayn’s hair. It smells like coconut, like his shampoo. “We’re doing great.”

\---

They end up at a bar afterwards, because Niall’s apparently decided that’s where the afterparty is and ten years hasn’t changed the fact that no one argues with Niall about parties. In a lot of ways it’s nicer than the reunion itself; Harry doesn’t feel the need to talk to anyone he doesn’t like, so he just sits in a booth with Louis and Danielle and leans into Zayn’s side, listening as Zayn talks excitedly about comic books or something with Louis and occasionally replies to texts from Liam asking him how the wooing’s going. It doesn’t take long before Zayn’s arm is around Harry’s waist, but Harry doesn’t kid himself about that either. It’s what they’ve always done. He was supposed to be spending this weekend wooing Zayn, but how is he supposed to do that? All Harry’s normal moves don’t work here. Being cheeky and flirty at Zayn is what he always does. Anything romantic Zayn laughs off as more pretend. Harry knows that if this were a movie, they’d have kissed when they danced, or that maybe they’d end up getting drunk and hooking up, but Harry doesn’t want that. He doesn’t want to ruin what they have right now.

“I’ll get us another round,” Harry tells Zayn’s shoulder, when he sees both their glasses are empty. Zayn smiles his thanks, but Louis slides out of his side of the booth too.

“I’ll come with you. Same thing, love?” He asks Danielle, who nods and then turns to Zayn to ask about whether he met Taylor Swift without waiting for a response.

Louis, thankfully, waits until they’re out of earshot before he starts. “Seriously? You are so gone for that man.”

“I would hope so, as he’s my boyfriend.” Harry leans over the bar, smiles winningly at the bartender so he’ll pay attention to them. It works as well here as it does in New York, as it did when he was sneaking into bars around here. This specific bar isn’t one of the ones he snuck into—it’s new, but even if it wasn’t it would have been far too trendy for him to risk, all sleek metal accents and modern furniture.

Louis adds his and Danielle’s orders, then crosses his arms as he raises his eyebrows at Harry. “You don’t—”

“Are we talking about how nauseating Harry and his boyfriend are?” Niall asks, appearing next to them in that magical way he always had at parties. His cheeks are flushed, his tie loose and the top button undone, but his gaze is still as sharp as ever. “Because this is worse than Louis and Eleanor ever were.”

“We weren’t that bad!” Louis protests.

“They were adorable,” Harry agrees. It can’t hurt to butter Louis up. He suspects too much already. “How’s she doing, anyway?”

Louis’s face goes a little dark, and he shrugs. “Doing well, I think. See her posts on Instagram sometimes.” He raises a hand to fiddle at his hair, an old nervous gesture. “I think I saw her with your boyfriend’s ex-girlfriend, once.”

“Yeah, why didn’t you say he was famous?” Niall agrees. “Liz showed me a picture of him on a red carpet.”

Zayn won’t be happy about that. But the night’s leaning towards over; there’s no reason to ruin that. “He had a famous girlfriend,” Harry corrects. “Had.”

“Jealous?” Louis sing-songs, and Harry manages to keep smiling. He had been jealous. Not always, not even often maybe, not when Zayn was happy and so was Harry, but it wasn’t like his crush ever went away.

“I won in the end, didn’t I?” Harry points out, and takes the beers the bartender puts in front of him. He leaves them behind to push back through the crowd.

Zayn takes his beer with a grin and a “Thanks b—Harry,” then turns back to Danielle, talking about some blog they apparently both follow. Louis and Niall are a minute behind Harry, and Niall pulls up a chair at the end.

“So Zayn,” Niall says without preamble. It’s the same tone he’d used to use with people who tried to challenge his status as Guitar Hero king. “I hear you broke up with a supermodel for Harry?”

“Niall!” Harry snaps. Zayn’s not showing that the question affected him, but his face has gone still like it does when he’s hiding emotions behind it.

“We have to make sure he’s good enough for you.” Louis’s got a challenge in his face, like he’s daring Harry to say what he has to in order to stop this.

“I’m just curious about why someone breaks up with a supermodel,” Niall says. He’s got an easy smile on, one that Harry imagines is deadly in a boardroom.

“Why does anyone break up with anyone?” Zayn shrugs.

“Even when—”

“Has Zayn shown you the website he helped design?” Harry interrupts. “It’s brilliant.”

Zayn bites at his lip, but he’s smiling as Harry pulls out his phone to demonstrate. A second later, his hand’s over Harry’s on the table, nudging until Harry flips his over and Zayn can intertwine their hands.

\---

“Do you want to go to bed?” Harry asks, when he pulls up in front of his mom’s condo. It’s late—past midnight—but Zayn held his hand for the last hour, and seeing everyone from high school again makes him feel young and immortal.

“Nah. I mean, I know I should be, but I’m not tired.” Zayn shuts the door of the car. “What else is there to do here? Want to watch an episode of something?”

Harry wouldn’t mind that, cuddling on the couch, but it’s what they do in New York. It won’t help with the wooing. “We could go for a walk on the beach,” he suggests. “High up on the beach,” he adds, and Zayn makes a face at him.

“I was going to agree anyway.”

“Don’t want you to get scared,” Harry tells him, leading Zayn around the condo towards the beach. He pauses at the edge of the house to pull off his shoes and socks, but Zayn just waits, his boots still firmly on. “The sand won’t bite, you know.”

“I’m comfortable like this.” Zayn gives the sand the same look a cat gives something it finds mildly distasteful. “We can’t all be California boys.”

“It’s not a California thing to be barefoot on the beach,” Harry protests, but he leaves it at that. It’s not worth the argument.

The sand’s cool between Harry’s toes as they walk. There’s nothing quite like the feel of that, like home and childhood—like running over this sand with Louis, and later Niall; like Gemma burying him under this sand. There’s something weird about walking over this beach with Zayn next to him, still in his dark jeans and bright jacket, his hair brilliant in the moonlight, his face calm and thoughtful. Something out of place and right all at once.

“Hope this wasn’t too bad?” Harry asks, nudging Zayn with his hips.

“Nah.” Zayn’s smile is soft in the moonlight, like that same light reflected off the water. Most of the lights in the houses behind them are off; it feels like they’re alone here. No one to prove anything to. Just them. “It was fun. Got to see where you came from.”

“You already knew where I came from.”

“It’s different.” They’re walking close enough that their arms are bumping. It’d be easy to reach out, intertwine their fingers. “It’s like…you can’t really know someone until you know what they’ve grown from, you know? Like, seen their roots.”

“And how do you like my roots?” Harry waggles his eyebrows. “How do you like my roots, Zayn?”

Zayn chuckles, and bumps their shoulders together. “They’re good roots. Your friends are chill.”

“That’s a word for them.” Harry laughs. “Sorry they were on about Gigi.”

“It’s fine.” Zayn edges away, but just to shrug off his jacket, sling it over his shoulder. Harry watches in a bit of awe. It looks like it should be in a runway, the sudden reveal of the tattoos over Zayn’s biceps and shoulders. “I expected it. She’s the most interesting thing I’ve ever done—that’s not what I meant,” he adds, like he knows what Harry’s going to say. “I mean, dating her is the most interesting thing.”

“You’re more interesting than that.” It gets a smile out of Zayn, looking away a little like he doesn’t want Harry to see it. But it’s true. Zayn’s so much more than whom he’s dated, than anything like that. There are infinities behind Zayn’s pretty face, even if not everyone wants to see it. But Zayn just laughs. “You are!”

“I love you too, babe.” Harry can’t help the face he makes. “You really don’t like it when I call you that?”

“I don’t mind, really.” It’s not like Harry can say everything that’s built up around it, around that one word. Or why the ‘I love you’ matters so much, and feels so weird. “It was just…you called Gigi that, all the time.”

“I call everyone that,” Zayn points out, which is true and not the point at all. “You should have told me sooner if it bothered you.”

“So you could use it to annoy me?” Harry asks, and Zayn laughs and doesn’t deny it, because at least he admits he’s an asshole. Harry glances at that laugh, then away quickly. Sometimes Zayn is just too much to look at full on, like the sun. “I’m not allowed to be mad at you for forever, anyway. You’ve done me a huge favor, coming here.”

“It was fun, I told you.” They’re reaching the set of rocks that once had been the farthest Harry could go, back when his mom was giving him boundaries. Harry settles onto the biggest of the rock, and Zayn takes the cue to sit down next to him. It’s only just big enough for two adult men, which might have been an ulterior motive, but Zayn doesn’t seem to mind. He’s warm next to Harry, like he’s radiating body heat. “Don’t know why you asked me, anyway. You didn’t have anything to prove.”

“I know.” Harry sighs. The wind’s picking up, blowing his hair around; he brushes it out of his face. Zayn’s hair, short now, doesn’t seem to be bothering him. Maybe there is a plus to that short hair thing. “I just wanted to make sure it would all go right, you know? It was stupid.”

“You are pretty stupid,” Zayn agrees, and Harry laughs. “No, but seriously. Everyone loves you. Even that one bitch, your nemesis. She wasn’t that bad. There wasn’t any pig’s blood or anything.”

“Wasn’t that prom?”

Zayn shrugs. “Isn’t that every American teenager’s experience?”

Harry sticks out his tongue. “I’m not the first American you’ve come in contact with. I know that. You dated Gigi for years, and she was more American than me.”

“But I’ve never gone to a reunion. I think the movies have lied to me.”

“Really?” Harry makes his most astonished face. “The internet lied? You mean all those stories about you and your secret baby aren’t true?”

“You wish I had a secret baby. You’d love having a baby to play with.”

“I really would,” Harry admits. He’s never made a secret of how much he loves babies. “But it’s not like you’d be any better.”

“For sure.” Zayn says it easily. “Think we can steal Lux, run away together?”

Harry snorts, but he can’t help but imagine it, him and Zayn with a baby. He’s gotten to the age where that’s part of the fantasy, not just him and Zayn, but him and Zayn and kids, which isn’t helped by the fact that Zayn is legitimately good with kids. “I think Lou might have something to say about that.”

“Nah, she wouldn’t catch us. We’d get away with it.” Zayn leans back, tips his head up. He looks like a painting, or maybe something mythological. Something out of a fairy tale, set to lure unsuspecting people onto crashing rocks. “That was one of the reasons I broke up with Gigi.”

“She didn’t want kids?” Harry manages to keep his surprise to a minimum, he thinks. Not only about Gigi, but more because Zayn doesn’t talk about this, not with Harry. Liam gets this sort of emotion, or maybe Ned and Jason; definitely his cousins. Not Harry. Even when Zayn was curled up on a couch with Harry, watching mindless TV and clearly unwilling to go home to be alone with his dogs, he didn’t talk about it, just let Harry play with his hair as they watched like he was gaining strength from their closeness. So he’s not expecting the confidence, not here, not late at night on a California beach, not so casual.

“Nah, she did, but like…I didn’t want my kids raised in that environment, you know? Like, with the cameras and the paparazzi and the looks and shit. And that’s her world, you know? She wasn’t going to leave it, and I wasn’t going to ask her to.” Zayn’s eyes are still closed, and he talks evenly. Harry knew he was over Gigi, knew that wasn’t an issue, but it’s still good to hear Zayn talk about her without pain. “It was just, I don’t know. An end date, and we both knew it.”

“So that’s why you break up with a super model?” Harry asks. He pokes Zayn’s side, so Zayn opens his eyes. “That’s very mature of you. Niall’d be disappointed.”

It gets the smile out of Zayn Harry’d wanted. “I mean. You can tell whatever story you’d like, as long as it won’t, like, get sold to the press or whatever.”

“Only good stories, I promise.” Harry knocks his shoulder again, so Zayn will keep smiling. “The sex was too good, it was distracting her from her work. She kept getting lost in your eyes. She was intimidated because you’re prettier than she is. She realized that keeping you to herself was selfish and she needed to unleash you on the world to—”

“Fuck off,” Zayn cuts him off, but he’s rolling his eyes and laughing. Harry grins back, satisfied.

The waves come in and out, in and out. For all Harry’d always loved the beach, he’d never been one to just sit out here and watch; as a teenager he’d been too busy, too social, or maybe just not introspective enough. Usually when he’s back, he’s trying to get as much time with his family as he can. But this is what Zayn does, what he’s always done; he lets Harry sit here and watch the waves crash on the beach and not feel the need to take a picture or talk about it. Just being there is enough, sharing it between the two of them and the moon.

“You’re going to be great, you know.” Zayn breaks the silence, for once. Harry looks away from the waves, back at him; Zayn’s still gazing at the horizon like it’ll tell him all the secrets of the world. “At your internship, and life. You don’t need a hot boyfriend to back that up. You’ll do it all on your own.”

Harry makes a noise, low in his throat. He knows that, he does—he’s not actually humble, or unsure. But hearing Zayn say it like that, sure like he can’t imagine anything else, it makes his stomach do that fluttery thing again.

“Thanks.” Maybe the night is going to hide his blush. “That means a lot.”

Zayn hums. Harry can’t figure out if he’s closer or not, but the night feels less cold. Or maybe that’s just the warmth of Zayn’s praise, or some sort of poetic shit like that.

“Can I—” Harry cuts himself off, shaking his head. He doesn’t know what to say yet. He hasn’t wooed enough, doesn’t know what Zayn will say. They still have another day of potential awkwardness.

“Hm?”

“Never mind,” Harry says. He turns to the ocean, to that endless dark expanse of possibility. “I’ll tell you later.”

Harry doesn’t know how long they sit there, but it feels like an infinity of him and Zayn, silent but together. Harry knows this is romantic, he should be making more of an effort to woo him or whatever Liam would say, or at least say something but he doesn’t want to ruin the moment. This feels too important for that.

Finally, though, Harry shivers, and Zayn stirs like he’s waking up. “You cold? Want to go in?”

“Do you?” Harry replies. He is a little cold, but he can overlook that. And maybe Zayn will give him his jacket if he does, in true high school fashion.

“I could sleep,” Zayn admits, and gets up. Harry lifts his arms up, and Zayn takes his hands, tugs him up.

“You could always sleep,” Harry says, as they start to walk back. Zayn’s dropped Harry’s hand, but their feet are moving in step, and if Harry looked behind them their footsteps would be imprinted together, sets of bare feet and boot prints.

“You know, the movies definitely lied to me,” Zayn says, after a while more of silence.

“Yeah, we’ve gone over that. You’re very disappointed in my American high school experience.”

“And the reunion. Weren’t you supposed to be crowned king of the reunion or something?”

“It might not have been me, even if there was a king.”

Zayn waves that objection away. “And there wasn’t even an embarrassing slideshow.”

“You’ve seen the embarrassing teenaged pictures of me. That’s what Facebook is for.” Harry slides a sidelong look at Zayn. “I’m more surprised by how easy it was the fool everyone that we were going out.”

“We’re just that good of actors.” Zayn doesn’t seem to take the hint entirely, that this should make him realize that it was easy because they would be good together. “Or your friends are stupid.”

“Could be either,” Harry agrees. “But we didn’t even have to kiss to prove it.” He shoots Zayn another glance, to see his reaction.

He doesn’t seem to have a reaction, or at least, not one that Harry can see in the dark. It’s not disgust, at least; not laughter about the absurdity of kissing Harry. “Well, we’ve known each other for years. Makes it easier.”

Harry doesn’t deflate at Zayn’s response. Deflating would mean he’d hoped that hint would cause something, which he didn’t. It was just fishing. “I thought Liam was the one who acted like everyone’s boyfriend,” he says, for something to say.

“But you didn’t take him.”

“No,” Harry agrees. Zayn is looking at Harry when Harry glances over this time, his gaze steady and incisive, like he’s trying to see inside of Harry. It might be easier if he could. If he could just see it and Harry wouldn’t have to figure out how to make this leap. “I didn’t.”

They walk the rest of the way back in silence. Harry’s not entirely sure what that means. It means something, or it feels like it does. Like it should.

They’re climbing the stairs up to the house when Harry breaks the silence again. “We probably don’t have to leave here until late morning,” he announces. “Maybe eleven, eleven thirty?”

“Fine.” Zayn steps aside so Harry can unlock the door, then follows him in. The living room is dark, Harry’s mom and stepdad long since in bed, so Zayn’s all shadows here, like a dream.

“I mean it. Not later than eleven thirty. If you aren’t up by eleven, I’m throwing water at you.”

“Harry, chill. I’ll be up.” Zayn’s still looking at Harry, so intense it’s making Harry babble.  

“Just warning you. I’ve woken up a lot of people sleeping in in that room. I’m good at it. Gemma never woke up, and—”

“Harry.”

“Yeah?”

It feels like a dream, watching Zayn move closer, his hand settling behind Harry’s neck, pulling him forward. Zayn’s eyelashes against his skin, those big dark eyes reflecting and swallowing the light all at once. The feel of Zayn’s lips against his, a bit chapped but soft and _Zayn’s_ , and he’s kissing Zayn and it hits him all at once, that maybe he should do something other than stand there in shock. Harry wills his lips to move, and they do, and he’s actually kissing Zayn. It’s as good as he imagined it, how Zayn’s exhale would sound this close, how his lips would feel, how everything would feel.

Too soon, Zayn’s hand is sliding off of Harry’s neck, and he’s stepping away. Harry keeps his eyes closed one extra second, just to savor this moment, in the cool California night.

Then he opens his eyes. Zayn’s smiling at him, soft and a little uncertain, like he’s worried about Harry’s reaction. “So the movies would get one thing right,” he explains, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Good night, Haz.”

Harry’s voice comes out hoarse and faint. “Night.”

He watches as Zayn ducks down the hall to the guest room, smiling helplessly and rooted to the ground.

\---

Despite when they went to sleep, Harry’s up early the next day. He’d slept well, despite the giddiness that the kiss—The Kiss, he can’t help but capitalize it—evoked, and so he rolls out of bed early and sets off for a run on the beach. It’s the same place he and Zayn had walked last night, but it feels so different—the water’s a bright blue now, the sun shining. There are a few other people running on the beach, and he waves to them as he passes them. It’s more than endorphins that have him buzzing. He’s not sure what exactly he did, but Zayn had kissed him last night. That’s wooing of some sort. That’s nothing they’d done before. That’s not friends.

He finishes his run with a smile irrepressibly on his face. His mom’s in the kitchen again as he jogs in, and he has to kiss her cheek when he edges past her to grab a bottle of water from the fridge.

“Someone’s in a good mood,” she observes, watching as he down the water. “The reunion that good?”

“The reunion?” He finishes the water bottle, throws it into the recycling. It misses by about a foot, and his mom laughs as she picks it up and puts it in the bin. “Right, yeah. That was good. Louis was there too, he’s dating Danielle Campbell, remember her?”

“Really? That’s nice. She was always a sweet girl. Too sweet for Louis,” she adds, and Harry can’t deny it. He’s still smiling stupidly, but he can’t care. “So if that’s not what got you into this mood, would it have something to do with the person sleeping in the room down the hall?”

“You caught me. Robin’s put me in this mood,” Harry agrees, and dodges the hand she uses to swat at him. “That’s just pretend, mom.”

“Is it?” She gives him the same look she’d given him when he denied getting into the cookie jar.

Harry’s never been able to stand up to that look, like he’s never been able to lie to his mom for long. And even if he could, his face must give him away, because his mother’s expression relaxes into something soft and fond. “I really like him,” Harry admits. It doesn’t feel like enough, but he doesn’t have words for all of it, and certainly not for what he hopes, in case he jinxes it. He leans against the counter, fiddling with the edge of his shirt. “I have for ages, but he’s been in a relationship, and now…we kissed, last night.” His smile might be getting out of control.

“Really?” She braces her elbows on the counter so she can lean forward. It’s a weird flashback of high school, telling his mother about the person he likes while everyone else sleeps. “What happened to just pretend?”

Harry shrugs, but he’s pretty sure it falls far on the wrong side of blasé. “Hopefully it’s not valid anymore?”

“Good.” His mom smiles, and puts her hand over his. “You’re so happy with him, baby. It’s plain to see how much you adore each other. Even though he knows you.”

“Oh, thanks.”

She reaches out to smooth some hair out of his face. “You’re easy to fall into, Harry. But you don’t let many people know your faults. Zayn knows them and he still looks at you like you’re the only thing in the room he sees.”

“He does?” Harry knows that’s not what he should focus on, but he knows the rest of it. He’s self-aware. “You couldn’t have told me sooner?”

“You needed to figure it out on your own.” She squeezes his hand, then straightens. “I’m glad I got to meet him, though. You need to bring him out here again when Gemma’s around.”

“Let’s not—I’m not assuming anything,” Harry tells her, but he still kisses her cheek again when he leaves to go take a shower.

\---

Harry tries to see if Zayn does look at him like his mom says when Zayn comes out, but it’s hard to tell with Zayn in mornings, when he mainly looks like he wants coffee and nothing else. But he smiles a little when Harry hands him a mug of coffee, murmurs his thanks and leans into Harry as he drinks it. Back in his jeans and t-shirt, with his hair loose, he looks different from the man who’d kissed Harry last night; he looks like the Zayn who falls asleep on Harry’s couch and pouts at him if he’s too loud in the mornings but blinks awake with a smile that makes Harry want to bottle it if he wakes him gently.

He’s clearly not in a place to talk about what happened last night, so Harry lets him be. By the time they’ve bid goodbye to Harry’s parents and are in the uber to the airport, Zayn is awake, staring out the window at the other cars, but Harry doesn’t want to have this conversation in an uber, of all places. He’s spent all weekend trying and probably failing to woo Zayn, he’s not going to end it in such an unromantic place.

“Looking forward to going home?” he says instead, and Zayn turns from the window to look at him.

“Looking forward to seeing Rhino,” he admits. “And yeah, my bed and shit. You? Do you miss it out here?”

Harry glances out the window, at the palm trees and stucco. “Sometimes.” He shrugs, fiddling with his hair. “But I love New York too. The vibe’s different but it’s not like, bad. And there’s my friends, and…I mean, my life is there. This is fun to visit, but it’s not my life.” Harry swallows, and looks at his knees. “And you’re there.”

When Zayn doesn’t make a noise, Harry looks up. Is this what his mom meant, about how Zayn looks at him? It makes Harry want to squirm, though away or towards Zayn he can’t tell. He’s just smiling, but it’s soft and pleased and intent and gorgeous and Harry really wishes they were somewhere other than an uber so they could have the conversation and he could kiss Zayn.

They ride to the airport the rest of the way in silence, spend the time waiting in the security line bickering over whether Harry’s silver boots are unnecessarily gaudy for this time in the morning. Harry doesn’t think anyone who wears bird print jackets or who he knows has a flowered leather jacket has anything to say about it, but it passes the time until they get through security.

“They do make it easier to keep track of you,” Zayn concedes, as they get to the gate. “I’ll never lose you. I’ll just look for the feet that are blinding me.”

“See? Form and function.” Harry sits down on one of the chairs, kicks out his feet so he can better admire the boots. He quite likes them, personally. “Admit it. They’re great.”

“They’re tacky. It’s almost as bad as the couch suit—”

“It was florals!”

“Sure, Harry Von Trapp.” Harry opens his mouth to retort, then closes it again.

“What?”

“Like, in sound of music? The curtain dresses?” Zayn presses his lips together when Harry laughs. “You’ve seen the movie too.” He pouts more when Harry keeps laughing. “Shut up, you twat.”

“You’re such a dork,” Harry says, still grinning, but he knocks their knees together.

“Musicals are sick,” Zayn insists, crossing his arms over his chest.

“They are.” Zayn’s still pouting, so Harry knocks his forehead against Zayn’s shoulder. “Zaaaayn. I’m sorry. I’ll be nice.”

“You’re an asshole.”

“And you are a dork,” Harry points out. “You know that. It’s part of your charm.”

“How come you’re only mean to me?” Zayn continues, like Harry hadn’t been talking. “Everyone says how nice you are. You’ve got everyone else fooled.”

Harry’s never been able to fool Zayn, it’s part of why he loves him. How Zayn takes none of his shit and likes him anyway, like his mom said.

“Because you’re special,” Harry tells him, and knows he’s beaming ridiculously when that gets a smile. Zayn’s smile could occupy him for hours, examining how his eyes curve, how his nose wrinkles, how his eyes sparkle even though eyes shouldn’t be able to do that.

“Hey!”

Harry jumps, at the reminder of the outside world. He’s certainly not expecting Niall in front of him, out of his suit and back in jeans and a golf shirt. Out of context, he looks even more different from when they were seventeen. Harry’s never wished he would go away more, not even when he was sixteen and Niall was interrupting his seven minutes in heaven with Tiana Cook.

“Hi!” Harry smiles anyway. It’s not Niall’s fault Harry has a limited amount of time for his wooing before they go back to reality. “Flying back?”

“I’m sure Niall just likes to hang out in airports,” Zayn says before Niall can reply. Harry slaps a hand over his mouth, and keeps smiling at Niall.

“You prefer to fly than to drive?”

“Six to one.” Niall eyes Harry’s hand. “I don’t mind flying, lets me get work done.” He looks at Harry’s hand again. “Are you going to let him talk again?”

“Not if he’s going to be rude—fuck!” Harry yelps, when Zayn skips what everyone knows is the first stage of escalation, licking, and just bites at Harry’s palm. Harry yanks his hand back. “Seriously?”

“It made you let go.” Zayn gives Harry a toothy grin. “I can be mean too.”

“I know.”

“I didn’t mean to make you guys fight,” Niall inserts. He’s fidgeting, like he always used to around conflict, though at least it’s not like when they were fourteen and Niall would just break out into hysterical laughter whenever people started fighting. “You can go back to being sweet.”

“We…”

“We were arguing,” Zayn inserts smoothly. “I was saying he was mean to me.”

“Harry’s never mean.”

“I told you!” Zayn elbows Harry, just enough that Harry can feel it but not so that it even begins to hurt. “He’s only mean to me.”

“Because you’re special,” Harry repeats, but it doesn’t feel like it just did. Not with Niall there, where it feels like the pretense is hovering over them, coloring everything they say.

“I—” Zayn cuts himself off as an announcement starts, declaring their flight starting preboarding. Harry stands up as Zayn leans down to dig something out of his bag.

“That’s us,” he tells Niall, though Niall probably figured that out. “So, bye again!”

“Bye!” Niall lets Harry hug him, squeezes him back. “It was great to see you. Next time I’m in New York, or you’re in NorCal…”

“Definitely.” Harry lets him go, and Niall sticks his hand out to Zayn, who’s stood up sometime during the hug.

“It was good to meet you,” he says, as Zayn takes his hand. “I’m sure I’ll see you sooner, but ten years, same time same place?”

Zayn laughs. “It’s a date,” he agrees. Niall grins back, bids them good luck, then disappears back into the corridor.

Harry watches him go for a second, then gives Zayn a sidelong glance. “You agreed to go to my twenty year reunion.”

“Yeah.” Zayn picks up his backpack, throws it over his shoulder. “Do you need water before we go?”

“That’s in ten years, Zayn. You said you’d be back.”

“Are you saying we won’t be friends in ten years?” Zayn asks, and wanders towards where everyone’s gathering to board. It sounds simple when he says it like that. Like of course they’ll be friends in ten years, that Zayn will be willing to pretend to be his boyfriend again, or really will be. Like Zayn doesn’t cut people out of his life, and Harry couldn’t be one of those people.

Or like they won’t be pretending in ten years. Harry can still taste Zayn, can still feel the phantom pressure of his lips when he thinks too hard about it. But he’s not going to have this talk on the plane, where they’re trapped and Zayn’s already stressed because he hates flying and everyone can hear.

He touches his lips, just to remind himself, and follows Zayn.

\---

Maybe he’s jetlagged or Harry should have timed the flight better, but Zayn doesn’t fall asleep right away this time. Instead, his grip tightens on the armrest as they taxi and the flight attendant finishes his announcement.

Harry doesn’t know what to say, how to distract Zayn or make it better, but he reaches out, puts his hand on top of Zayn’s. It takes a second, but Zayn lets go, flips his hand under Harry’s, and it’s Harry’s hand that Zayn’s holding tightly as they take off, Zayn staring ahead and Harry looking at Zayn.

His grip loosens as they level off, until it’s not painful anymore. Zayn smiles at Harry, his secret smile that only comes out when he’s feeling vulnerable, and Harry grins back, his stomach fluttering. Soon, he thinks. Soon.

\---

The New York hits Harry all at once. Even the airport is different than California, more hectic, more pushy. It’s late and it’s still vacation, according to Harry, so they get an Uber instead of taking the subway, Zayn somehow ending up in the same car as Harry even though it’s not the most efficient way for him to get back to his apartment.

The view out the window is certainly different. Queens in all its grimy glory lines the roads, no more palm trees. It’s muggy, even with the Uber blasting the air conditioning; the smell’s already seeping back into Harry. It’s definitely not vacation anymore.

But Zayn’s looking out the window like he had in San Diego, and his profile’s still as sharp and his eyelashes as long, and he looks out the glass in the same way, like he’s seeing more than is there. They’re almost home. Back to normal lives, their normal friendship. No one here thinks they’re going out, except for the people who sometimes mistake them. No one here cares who Harry is, if he succeeds or if he fails or if he doesn’t live up to expectations. It’s comforting.

Zayn follows Harry upstairs, waiting as he unlocks the door. Maybe he’s staying over tonight, despite him missing his bed. It wouldn’t be the first time.

Liam jumps up from the couch when Harry opens the door. “Harry! You’re back. How did—” he cuts himself off when Zayn comes in behind him. “Both of you are back! Here. Does that mean it went well?” he asks Harry, grinning not at all subtly. “You—”

“The reunion went well.” Harry says it as firmly as he can, throwing his bag onto the ground. Hopefully Liam will get the hint. “California was fun.”

“Just fun?”

“Hi Liam,” Zayn interrupts, before Harry can figure out a way to tell Liam to fuck off without Zayn noticing. “Way to make me welcome in your home after my long voyage.”

Liam obediently pulls Zayn into a hug, which Zayn returns. Over his shoulder, though, Liam goes through a complicated series of facial expressions that Harry can guess the meaning of. He shakes his head, but then he remembers the kiss, and shrugs. Liam’s face lights up, then goes devious, which is never a good sign.

“Okay, I’m going to bed, I just wanted to see you home!” Liam lets go of Zayn and nearly shoves him backwards, towards Harry. “Good night, welcome back, see you later. I’ll have my headphones in.”

“Liam!” Harry protests, but Liam doesn’t respond.

Zayn watches him as he goes back into his room, forgetting his shoes and his phone in the process. “Did he get weirder while we were away?”

“You’ve known him longer,” Harry points out, which gets a concession shrug from Zayn. “Do you want something to eat or something?”

“I’m good, thanks.” Slowly, Zayn turns around the living room. They’re really back now. Back where they started. Or not where they started, that was in a bar the first time Harry’d met some of Liam’s other friends, including his devastatingly gorgeous and funny and sweet old friend—and then moments later, that friend’s also gorgeous girlfriend. But metaphorically where they started. “Harry.”

“Yeah?”

“What was it you wanted to say?” Zayn’s just looking at him, all big eyes and a little smile, like he knows something Harry doesn’t. “You started to say something important, like, at the beach, then you didn’t. What was it?”

Harry’s had something important to say to Zayn for years. Something he put off telling him, years and months and days, because the moment wasn’t right. Because the timing was off, or Harry was scared, or the setting was wrong. But now Zayn’s standing in their living room, and they’re alone, no expectations. Just Zayn, soft and smiling and waiting. It’s never going to be the perfect time. But Harry doesn’t care anymore. He’s had a taste of what he could have, and he doesn’t want to give it up. He doesn’t want the dream to end.

It turns out, in the moment, Harry can’t find the words at all. Instead he walks to Zayn, cups his face with his hands, his thumbs smoothing over Zayn’s cheekbones like he has so many times before. Zayn’s eyes are huge from this close, big and unwavering, and his breath catches in his throat for a second before Harry kisses him.

This isn’t like that moment back in California, where Zayn took Harry by surprise. Harry kisses Zayn this time like he’s been dreaming of for years, like he can tell Zayn everything just through this kiss, every want and hope, every thing he never found the words to say.

And Zayn doesn’t hesitate, falling into the kiss right behind Harry, his hands coming up to grip Harry’s hair as he pulls him closer, like they could merge into each other if they tried hard enough. It’s not perfect. Zayn’s breath is a little stale and Harry knows his hair feels gross and Zayn’s bag is pressed uncomfortably into Harry’s side, and he doesn’t care at all.

“That.” Harry breathes it a millimeter from Zayn’s lips, just enough to speak. He doesn’t move his hands, and neither does Zayn. “That’s what I wanted to say.”

“Oh.” Zayn blinks again, and his eyelashes are even more breathtaking from this close. “That was articulate.”

How he manages to be snarky at a time like this, Harry doesn’t know, but he has to smile for it, tracing the edge of Zayn’s beard where it blends into his skin. “You should go on a date with me.”

“You already took me to a reunion.”

“A real date. No pretend. Just us.” Harry has to kiss him again, quick, half to shut him up. “Yeah?”

Zayn smiles, bright and fond, like there’s nothing else in the world but the two of them, like Liam totally isn’t eavesdropping and everyone Harry knows isn’t going to tell him that they told him so. It’s the sort of smile Harry’d seen him give Gigi, but it’s not a surprise. Maybe Zayn has been looking at him that way.

“Yeah,” Zayn says, and rests their foreheads together. It hurts a little. Harry doesn’t care. “Yeah, that’ll be good.”

**Author's Note:**

> Liked it? Want to discuss? Comment or come chat on [ tumblr!](http://zaynandhisboys.tumblr.com/)


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